Don't Let Me Fall for You: REWRITTEN
by MASHlover23
Summary: Klinger has a secret as to why he despises war so much, and why he acts the way he does. When his old flame shows up at the 4077th, and he sees her falling for a young surgeon from Boston - how will he handle it?
1. A Tainted Keepsake

**A/N: Well hello there! First off, I'd like to thank you if you read the older version of this fic, and have decided to try out the new (hopefully improved) version. I will definitely use chunks from the old fic, but there will also be several new add on's such this opening chapter. **

**If you are new to my story, thanks for wanting to give it a whirl! A lot things may not make sense in the beginning chapters, but all of the piece will all fit together and make sense eventually! **

**Please leave a review if you have any thoughts/constructive criticism.**

**Disclaimer:  I do not own M*A*S*H - only my OC's and their story lines.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Corporal Maxwell Q. Klinger was taking a load off of his pastel blue, five inch tall pumps, on a bench in the hallway between the O.R and Pre-Op.<p>

Sweat dampened the fabric of Klinger's short sleeved yellow sundress under the armpits, and also all of the way down his spine. It was even daring enough to invade his bloomers. It was pretty safe to say that Klinger felt – and especially smelt – awful.

It was the beginning of May, and Korea was as hot as hell. No wait, scratch that – _it was hotter than hell._

Even with Klinger's desert heritage, he found the thick humidity and mercury breaking temperatures unbearable. If this was just the beginning of the summer, he couldn't even imagine what horrors the Korean climate has in store for July and August.

"_Ladies and Gentlemen, I'd like you to think back to forty minutes ago when there was a U.N style shindig happening in the compound. Well guess what? It's time to put on your party hats and boogie once more – wounded arriving by bus and chopper!" _

An exhausted sigh escaped Klinger's lips at the grimly sarcastic, P.A. announcement. He had been on duty for eleven hours already – the last thing he wanted to hear was that the 4077th was going to be receiving more casualties.

His biceps were so overworked that they didn't even burn anymore. Instead, it felt like he had two ginormous sausage casings stuffed with gelatin, stemming outward from both of his shoulders.

Klinger's lower back was so stiff that he was sure he'd be in pain for at least a day or two afterwards.

Just like clockwork, a stream of corpsmen and nurses flooded out of the O.R. and Pre-Op. As they stampeded toward the set of doors that led outside to the compound; Klinger gave himself a mental pep talk.

This was war. Whether he liked it or not – he was stuck being a part of it.

Even though Klinger was only a corpsmen, he found a bit of comfort in knowing that his part in the war helped save lives, as opposed to take them away.

That being said, Klinger was still very unhappy...

Dropping his entire life and hauling his twenty-nine year old self, halfway across the world, was by no means his idea. He had his own stupidity and Uncle Sam to thank for this lovely vacation. There were at least a million other things he would rather do, than haul bloody bodies to and fro like some sorta pack mule. Peeling potatoes, and marching around at all hours of the night with a rifle slung across his shoulder were also far down on the list.

Since the second Klinger had opened that damned letter from his Draft board; he vowed to utilize every cell he had in his brain to think up a scheme, to get him out of the mess.

He had mentally kicked himself in the butt more than once since he had shipped out to, Korea. Why didn't he just suck it up seven or eight years prior, and enlist during the last war?

What was the worst that could have happened? Sign up early for the infantry and after suffering through basic training; request to be assigned to some low-grade, rear echelon post.

There would have probably been several openings for a man like him, because people were more gung-ho about defending America back then. Most of the men signing up wanted to be with the Marines or the paratroopers, so they could part of the frontline action and defeat the Germans or the Japs.

"Corporal Klinger, you get up off of that bench in three seconds or else you are going to be wearing my boot print on your backside!" The shrill sound of Major Houlihan's voice was enough to bring Klinger out of his fog.

"Yes _sir_," Klinger grumbled, intentionally addressing her by the wrong sex.

He had only been in the service for eight months, but he had found that Major Houlihan was a tougher, more rigid officer, than almost all of the other male officers he had encountered. It was fairly safe to say that Klinger was intimidated by the woman. However, the way she and Major Burns constantly treat the enlisted men like they are some sort primitive, alien lifeforms; made Klinger not respect her authority.

Burns and Houlihan were always on Colonel Blake's case about how Klinger's, lunatic antics and cross-dressing were a threat to the morale of the unit. The always went out of their way to point out the fact that his behaviour was "perverse"… Like he really cared what a couple of General Patton wannabe's thought!

Klinger knew what kind of man he was – a man that didn't want to be destroyed by the venomous viper of war.

War had taken away everything cared about once before. He knew how it could cripple the bodies and spirits of the men and women in the service. Moreover, Klinger knew how it had the power to crush the lives of their loved ones back home.

The civilian female clothes, he crazy stunts, manic moods and general effrontery were all just an act. He would do anything it took to escape the fate of being another sad, statistic of war.

"What did you just call me?" Major Houlihan exclaimed as Klinger stood up. She would not stand to have her status disrespected by the likes of Corporal Klinger.

"Nothing Major," Klinger sighed as she pushed past her, and headed toward the doors that lead out to the compound - he was far too tired to argue with the Major.

Once outside, Klinger stood still for a minute and scanned the compound. There were at least a dozen bloody bodies lying on stretchers on the ground, waiting to be assessed for triage and hauled into Pre-Op.

It took only a few seconds before Nurse Kelley bellowed out his name, and motioned for him to come over to where she was at.

Here we go again.

"Klinger, this one is a low level priority. Dr. McIntyre said to tell Pre-Op, to start him on a saline and penicillin IV," Kelley repeated the instructions she was told, as Klinger positioned himself in front of the stretcher handles by the head of the patient.

Klinger nodded. After exchanging a glance of confirmation with Goldman – the man on the other end of the stretcher – they lifted the wounded solider up off of the ground.

"Hey, the Doc and nurse barely looked at me. Am I gonna be okay?" The solider piped up as he was being taken to Pre-OP. His tone mirrored the terror in his voice.

If it was the beginning of his shift, Klinger would have been more than willing to offer a few genuine words of the comfort. But in his current state, Klinger just didn't have it in him. He glanced down at the young solider and gave recited his generic spiel, "you're going to be fine kid. The doctors and nurses here are some of the best south of the thirty-eighth parallel."

"Really?" The red haired, freckled face solider asked, with a cow-eyed expression plastered on his face.

"Betcha' bootstraps on it kid," Klinger replied as he and Goldman set the soldier's stretcher on top of a gurney.

Klinger suddenly noticed a small, worn looking, leather bound pocket book rustle out of the soldier's BDU jacket pocket. The faded, gold stamped lettering on the front of the book – _Heavenly Highway Hymns_ – sent an eerie chill throughout Klinger's otherwise, overheated body.

Acting on instinct, he quickly snatched up the book. He knew better than to take a patient's personal affects without consent, but Klinger could not help himself.

The eerie feeling only intensified when Klinger noticed that there were dried blood splatters on the edges of the pages. He assumed that the blood wasn't the soldier's; it was to brown in colour to belong to the freshly wounded, young man. Klinger's heart began to race when he noticed that top part of the pages were charred, and blackened by gun powered residue. With shaky hands, Klinger flipped open the cover of the book. His wildest fears were confirmed when he read the two inscriptions on the inside of the cover; each one direct underneath the next.

_ Dorthy A. Morango, 1928_

_Bobbi R. Morango, 1934_

_May the love we share bring you comfort, if ever you feel afraid. __Thinking about you always._

_Love Your Darling,_

_Maxwell Q. Klinger_

"Where the hell did you get this kid?!" Klinger demanded in a forceful tone.

The wounded solider looked at him bewildered. He had no idea as to why the hairy medic, whom was wearing a dress that resembled one his mother owned, was suddenly barking at him like his platoon Sergeant.

"I, I uh – found it."

"Where?" Klinger growled.

"At Battalion aid - it was just lying on the ground, so I picked it up. My Ma gave me one just like it when I was a kid," The solider explained his actions. His voice was shaky from nervousness.

"So what you're saying is that you stole it!" Klinger's voice boomed, which caused several heads in the chaotic room Pre-Op to snap in his direction.

"Hey calm down Klinger," Goldman suggested as he placed a hand on one of Klinger's shoulders. He wanted to be ready to intervene, just in case Klinger would suddenly snap and begin to beat on the solider.

Klinger thrashed his shoulder forward to free himself from Goldman's grip. He was still holding onto the hymn book; his knuckles white from gripping it so tightly.

"You name wouldn't happen Dorothy, Bobbi or Maxwell - would it," Klinger paused to read the name on the kid's dogtags, "Timothy?"

Petrified by the raging expression in Klinger's dark eyes, Timothy simply shook his head slowly.

"What's your outfit kid?" Klinger asked.

"7th Infantry Division, 2nd Battalion, 1st Infantry Regiment, Able Company, third platoon, second squad," Timothy automatically recited his chain command like his life depended upon it.

"Was there a woman up at your aid station?"

"What on Earth are you talking about Klinger?" Goldman blurted out, wondering if Klinger had actually gone crazy.

Timothy furrowed his brows together. After thinking for a moment he responded, "actually, yes there was. How did you know that?"

All of the emotion seemed to vanish from Klinger's face when he heard Timothy's reply.

"Your name ain't on this book, but mine is. Find yourself another hymn kid." Klinger said in a detached tone.

The war had just become a hell of a lot more stressful...


	2. Letters & Direct Shelling

"Do you need anything else before I sack out sir?" Captain Bobbi Morango asked the very tired surgeon standing across from her on the other side of the empty, makeshift O.R. table.

In the background, the usual rumbling of mortar's and artillery from the thirty-eight parallel bellowed out. Both Captain Morango and Major Fowler noticed the noise, but neither thought much of it. They had both been assigned to the Battalion aid station for so long, that silence was almost more frightening.

Major Fowler let out a large sigh, "no, I should be good Captain. You go get some rest honey. That was a fifteen hour stretch we just put in."

Bobbi's upper lip curled upward in disgust at the Major, referring to her as _honey. _She had asked him, along with some of the other guys at the post, to refrain from addressing her in misogynistic fashion. Bobbi was quite aware of the fact that she was probably the only female so close to the front, and did not need to be reminded of it through derogatory comments.

"Yes sir," Bobbi replied as she lazily pulled off her latex gloves.

She untied her blood stained, khaki coloured apron from around her waist, and tossed it into the mud caked laundry hamper.

It baffled her that the Army considered the bamboo walled hut they used for a makeshift O.R. as sanitary. Blood from countless mangled bodies was caked onto the wooden flooring. Also, there was a chunk about the size of a small car missing from in the roof, which exposed the patients and the staff to the wrath of the Korean climate.

Even more baffling, were the supplies the station received. H.Q. seemed to think that since Battalion aid stations scraped by on basically nothing, that it was all that they needed.

Medicine, bandages, gauze, water, food – you name it – the station was likely low on it.

The United States Army, claimed to be the strongest and well equipped fighting force in the world… what a load of crap!

When Bobbi had made her way over to where her sleeping area was, she was happily surprised to see that there were two letters on the laid on top of her pack. She looked up to the sky and smiled when she saw that the moon and stars shone bright enough, so that she didn't have to light up her small kerosene lamp to be able to read her letters. Being able to save on fuel was always a bonus!

H.Q. must have finally got there heads of the sand and gotten her unit's mail rerouted to them. The last time Major Fowler called H.Q. to inquire about it, the clerk had told him that all of the 2nd Battalion's mail somehow wound up in Puerto Rico...

Bobbi slept beneath the cover of a half blown away straw roof. Two crumbling clay walls also protected her somewhat. Overall though, Bobbi was very much exposed to the torments of Mother Nature while she slept.

Her living area was segregated from the rest of the unit, seeing as how she was literally the only female. In some ways she enjoyed the fact that it allowed her much needed privacy. However, her segregation made her feel vulnerable because sleeping alone in a war zone was never a good idea.

There probably wasn't a thing Bobbi wouldn't do to try and get herself transferred to an M*A*S*H unit. It would be like living at the Plaza Hotel, in New York City! She would be able to sleep beneath the cover of a canvas tent in a cot with sheets, blankets, and a pillow. Being able to eat hot chow that wasn't pork and beans, or horrific looking K-rations would also be luxurious.

Her predicament was rotten, but there wasn't a single thing she could do about it. Bobbi had put in several requests for transfers, but as per usual, every single one was turned down.

Bobbi let out dreary sigh as she unrolled her thin, army issue sleeping bag, which sadly happened to be surplus from 1945. After checking her sleeping bag for snakes and other various critters which roamed around the Korean landscape, Bobbi crawled inside it. She was sitting upright so that her back rested against one of the clay walls, but the lower half of her body was covered by the sleeping bag.

She reached over to the right, and picked up the two envelopes on top of her pack and placed them on her lap. She smiled when she opened up the first letter.

_My Dearest Niece, _

_I know that this is the sixth time I have written you this month. I understand being stationed so close to the front must keep you on your toes, but please find the time to write back so I know that you are hanging on._

_I cannot imagine how desperate, and full of anger you must feel – but __do not__ let it damper you beautiful soul._

_You, myself, and the good Lord above; all know that you do not deserve to be where you are today. It is unfortunate that have endured such hardships while on Earth. I know you have a good soul though Bobbi Rosalynn Morango. I also know that at the end of the road – all of the trials and tribulations you have been faced with and endured, will be worth it. One day you will walk through the Pearly Gates to see Jesus, smiling down upon you._

_Last Sunday at church, the service was closed with the singing of yours, and your Mother's favorite hymn, "If We Never Meet Again". I have to admit that I was in tears by the time it was over. I love our home, but since you and your Mother have left, it just doesn't feel the same._

_I pray that the Lord will continue to watch over you, and will return home safe to Tennessee. __I will close now, with the hopes that in a week's time I will find a letter addressed to me from Korea._

_Love always,_

_Uncle Everett_

As Bobbi refolded the letter and returned it to its envelope, she felt a pang of guilt travel though her flesh.

The last time she had written her Uncle was over three months ago. He was the only person stateside that cared about her wellbeing. It was bloody foolish keep ignoring him – but what would she write him about?

Bone chilling loneliness, and mangled bodies of young soldiers, were not suitable topic to write you elderly Uncle about…

With a shake of her head, Bobbi picked up the second letter on her lap. Her heart began to palpitate when as she read whom it was from. None the less, she tore it open and began to read it.

_Bobbi,_

_I am delighted that you have finally found the time to write! You have no idea how much I look forward to your letters, ever since I found out that you're posted close to the ole 4077th. _

_Sadly business at the 4077__th__ hasn't slowed down. My arms are so sore from hauling so many litters around. Hopefully a lull will come soon. These constant deluges are wearing everybody out; as I am sure you know._

_I really don't know how you have managed live in this God awful army for eight years – then again, that really wasn't your decision. I hope that your request to be transferred from your Battalion aid station, to an M*A*S*H unit goes through soon. _

_Sorry, but I have to go now – more casualties have just flooded in. _

_I hope we get to see each other soon. Please stay safe._

_Yours truly,_

_Maxwell Q. Klinger_

Bobbi groaned as she rested her head back against the wall. She had no idea why Klinger kept on replying to her.

About a month ago, she had randomly received a letter from him. It was quite short and to the point. It was simply a few lines stating that he found out through a patient where she was stationed and if she needed to bend somebodies ear; that his was available.

Bobbi pride and sense of logic screamed at her not to, but her lonely heart won the battle.

They had each written only three letters a piece. The topic of conversation was kept to a vague, general format – neither Bobbi nor Klinger, brought up their past relations.

Even though it was wrong on so many levels, Klinger's letters helped to numb the vast grief Bobbi felt in her heart.

Suddenly out of nowhere, the faint pop of shells exploding far away in the background erupted into eardrum shattering bangs.

Bobbi saw one of the medics standing outside the door of the O.R. hut. He screamed at her to run to him, and that they were under direct shelling.

She managed to get one leg out of her sleeping bag, before her sense of sound dissipated and she felt her body fly up into the air. The last thing she thought about before the world went black, was that she'd never see Maxwell Klinger again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry this took so long to get out! Christmas got in the way and so forth.**

**Thanks to SOLIDERSAngel87 for your review. It really made my day! I am glad you will continue on with me with this re-write. Now to answer your question: **

**I basically have an ADHD personality when it come to writing fanfiction. My goal is update this fic every week and a half; two weeks at the most. ****I am slower writer, and I also have school work which I need to do.**

**That being said I hope you, along with my other follower, and whomever else might be reading this enjoyed this chapter. I know it is pretty short, but the next one will be longer - I promise!**

**Thanks for reading and please review if you have any thoughts or concerns. **

**DISCLAIMER: I only own my plot and my OC's. I sadly do not own M*A*S*H. **


	3. An Omen Come True?

**Disclaimer: Don't own M*A*S*H – only my OC's and original plotline. Also I don't own the hymn, **_If We Never Meet Again_**. **

_**(Author's note at the end) **_

* * *

><p>Just like everybody else at the 4077th; Klinger was beyond the point of exhaustion. The current deluge was one of the worst of the war, thus far. Wounded solider, after wounded solider, kept arriving at the hospital like they were the only medical unit north of Seoul.<p>

The timing was particularly unfortunate because some dunderhead of General at H.Q, who decided that Hawkeye and Frank should be plucked from active duty and be forced to attend a series of mandatory medical seminars, in Tokyo. So, the 4077th,was running on half a tank with only Trapper and Henry for surgeons.

Ultimately, that meant that the nurses, as well as the corpsmen; really had to pick the slack. Needless to say, the extra task really began to wear them out after a few days.

After the latest whirlwind, O.R. session – Klinger was sitting at a table by himself in the Mess Tent, slowly sipping away at a cup of stale tasting lukewarm coffee. He was quite peckish, but once he saw that supper was three day old pork chops and half rotten broccoli; he wisely chose to just stick with coffee. Caffeine is an appetite depressant, after all.

"Mind if join you, Klinger?" Radar's dreary voice made Klinger look up from his cup.

"Yeah sure," Klinger replied half asleep. When Radar sat down across from him, he was stunned to see that the Corporal only had a slice of buttered bread and a cup of coffee on his metal tray. "That's all you're gonna eat, kid?"

"Did you smell those pork chops? I will eat pretty much anything, but I'm not suicidal!" Radar defended his choice.

Klinger chuckled to himself … the cook really outdone himself _if Radar O'Reilly_ wouldn't even partake in his food.

"Gee whiz what a rough few days, huh Klinger?" Radar commented as he took a bite of his bread.

"You said it, kid."

"Do you wanna know what happened," Radar paused briefly to swallow, "when I called H.Q. today, to ask them when the fighting is going to die down?"

"What?" Klinger asked, knowing that if Radar was complaining it had to be a good story.

"The Sergeant I spoke to told me that he didn't have time to answer stupid questions, from four-eyed, nobody Corporal! Can you believe that? I mean jeez – how did he know I wear glasses?"

Klinger couldn't help but to smirk as he egged on Radar, "he could probably tell from just hearing your voice. It's a proven medical fact that wearing glass can alter the tone of a person's voice so that they sound less intimidating."

"Now wait just a-"

Before Radar could protest Klinger's absurd statement – the P.A. suddenly crackled on,_"Sorry to damper your already dreary spirits folks, but we've got wounded arriving by jeep, bus, and chopper on both the upper and lower pads." _

"Holy cow," Radar exclaimed as he slapped a hand to his cheek in astonishment, "I must tired. I didn't even hear the choppers coming!"

Acting on instinct and a sudden surge of adrenaline; both men then abandoned their pathetic excuse for meals and charged out of the Mess Tent doors.

Radar made a beeline for his office, so he could grab his clipboard, pencil, and a pad of paper to write down any inevitable orders that Colonel Blake would want dictate.

Klinger, hopped onto the first litter jeep he spotted, along with a few other corpsmen, and rode up to the upper chopper pad. A split second after the jeep had parked and Klinger had climbed out of it – a helicopter landed on the pad. He then ran up to the patient closest to the jeep and worked to unstrap the restraint overtop of the patient's chest, while the other corpsman worked on the restraint by the patient's feet.

It wasn't until after Klinger had detached the protective plastic dome around the patient's head that he realized the wounded soldier, was in fact a woman.

He hoped that he was dreaming. In fact, Klinger prayed that he was – which _was not_ something he did too often.

There was no possible way that Bobbi Rosalynn Morango, was the person whom was laying on that blood and dirt incrusted stretcher.

Her body wasn't oozing out blood by the ounce. No – she was somewhere behind the front, miles away from the 4077th.

It was only when Bobbi's eyelids flung open and Klinger saw the sheer terror in her blue eyes; did he realize that it really was Bobbi lying on that stretcher.

A blood curdling scream escaped Bobbi's lips when her sensory systems, suddenly kicked in. There was an unbearable, stinging throb radiating from her right shoulder and her left leg. Her body hadn't felt so broken since the winter of 1942.

"Oh my god…" Klinger murmured in disbelief under his breath, as he took a step backward to let a nurse and Trapper attend to Bobbi.

Klinger wanted to scream, cry, and throw up all at once. All of the emotions he had been suppressing for so many years suddenly hit him like a freight train.

"Easy there soldier we've –" Trapper stopped mid-sentence, when he looked up from the Bobbi's leg to her face, and realized that she was a woman, "holy shit."

"It hurts much," Bobbi whined incoherently, only partially registering the strangers stand over her.

The morphine that she had received somewhere between the time of the shelling and when she was put on the chopper, had almost completely worn off. The pain, combined with the surge of endorphins her brain was sending out was making her mind spin and out of lucidity.

"I'm gonna get you something for that doll," Trapper replied in a soothing tone. He then turned his attention to the nurse, who was applying a fresh pressure bandage across Bobbi's leg, "get me a quarter grain of morphine stat. Then start her on a saline and penicillin drip. Cross match and type as fast as possible; then prep for surgery. I'm gonna take her first."

"Yes Doctor." The nurse replied, before hurrying over to a nearby ambulance to grab the morphine.

"My leg – how bad is it?" Bobbi asked with her eyes shut tight, in an attempt to block out the searing pain.

Trapper placed his hand top of Bobbi's, which made her open her eyes and look to him. For a brief moment, the expression of genuine concern in Trapper's eyes made her forget about her pain as he spoke to her, "I promise you, I am going to do everything I can as your surgeon to ensure that you will walk again."

Right then, the nurse came back with a morphine filled syringe and handed it to Trapper. Once he had found a suitable vein, he maintained his direct eye contact with Bobbi, and he slowly injected the medication into her right forearm.

There was a subtle softness in Trapper's brown eyes, which for some unbeknownst reason, made Bobbi believe that Trapper meant every word he had said. Within seconds, the morphine surging through her blood stream caused the crippling pain to vanish, and replaced it with a warm, dull, fuzzy, floating sensation. She opened her eyes and murmured as coherently as possible, "Thank you Doc."

Satisfied that Bobbi was as comfortable as one could be in her state – Trapper, signalled for Klinger and Goldman to come forward and pick up her stretcher.

Klinger's body was shaking so badly from the shock that he was surprised he was even able to lift up his end of the stretcher by Bobbi's head. During the short trek from the chopper to the awaiting ambulance, the memories of the first time he met her – to the last time he had seen her in 1949 – flooded his thoughts.

When he and the corpsman had safely placed her stretcher into the back of the ambulance, a woeful question daunted his thoughts… _Had the black demon of war, finally brought him and Bobbi full circle?_

* * *

><p>"Boy oh boy, I am so going to chew out H.Q. once this session is over. They promised us that there shouldn't be any casualties while Hawkeye and Frank were stuck in Tokyo!" Colonel Blake griped as he scrubbed up alongside Trapper.<p>

"And you actually believed what some desk jockey at H.Q. said?" Trapper asked dryly. "Henry, I think your dome has finally cracked in two."

Henry turned off the tap, grabbed a towel off of the tray and dried his hands. "Yeah, yeah, yeah – let's just get in there and get to work," he responded, slightly agitated by Trapper's wisecrack.

"Right behind you," Trapper sighed as finished scrubbing and dried his hands.

After a nurse had tied a surgical mask onto his face; Trapper barged into the O.R, anxious to get to work on Bobbi.

On the chopper pad, Trapper noticed that there was an abundance of foreign debris, in and around, the site of her leg wound. It meant that that onset of gangrene was a highly probable, post-operative complication.

Trapper had been preforming meatball surgery long enough to know what if he didn't work quickly – there was a high possibility that she could lose leg. The wound on her shoulder however, wasn't too serious. No internal organ or bones were damaged – just some slight muscle and tendon lacerations.

When Trapper walked into the O.R., he was relieved to see that Bobbi was laid out on the gurney, second closest to the scrub room doors, and was completely prepped. As he walked up to the table he shouted to no one in particular, in a hurried fashion. "Where are the x-rays on this patient?" He held out his arms so that a nurse could put a surgical gown on him. After about thirty second without any kind of response, he yelled once more, "God dammit, I need the x-ray's on this patient right now!"

Nurse Baker whom was walking about the O.R., distributing freshly sterilized surgical instruments to all the tables stopped, and told Trapper, "Klinger should be here any second with them."

Sure enough, moments later Klinger came barreling into the room through the doors that bridged that gap of the hallway, between O.R, and Pre- OP.

It was probably the fastest that he, or anybody else for that matter, had developed a set of x-rays. The other corpsmen and nurses in Pre-OP and x-ray thought that Klinger had gone rabid.

"Here are the x-rays, sir," Klinger addressed Trapper through heavy breaths, as he pinned the pictures up onto the illuminated board.

"About damn time, Klinger," Trapper snapped, totally disregarding the obvious effort Klinger had put in to rushing the x-rays for him.

Major Houlihan was assisting Colonel Blake a table away, looked over her shoulder and sternly warned, "Dr. McIntyre, watch your language. There are ladies present in case you haven't noticed!"

Trapper turned around from the x-ray board and replied in a highly ornery tone, "Keep your comments to yourself, _nurse_. If I'm going to save this woman's leg – then the last thing I need is for you to go on like a frigid, old bat!"

Colonel Blake and the rest of the nurses couldn't help but to chuckle at the comment, despite the serious intent of it.

Completely outraged by disrespectful language toward a superior officer, Margaret went on a rant, "Clam up nurses! Get back to work! How dare you speak to a superior officer in such a degrading, not to mention unprofessional, manner." She was going to continue to dig into Trapper, when her train of thought suddenly switched gears, "Wait a second. Did you say a woman? You have a female patient lying on that table – right now!"

"Alright put her under," Trapper ordered his anesthesiologist. He then turned his attention back toward Margaret, "No, I have goat lying on the table."

"There is no need for derision, Doctor!" Margaret huffed, completely appalled by the continuation of Trapper's blatant effrontery.

"Whatever Major," Trapper grumbled as he outstretched his right hand with his palm facing upward. He was finished arguing with Margaret; knowing that he needed to focus on Bobbi. "Scalpel," he addressed his scrub nurse.

Margaret knew that it was futile to continue on bickering with Trapper so, she told Nurse Kellye to position two screens on either side of Bobbi's table. Regulations dictate that female patients be segregated from the male patients at all time.

As Trapper began to go to work; he found himself feeling more anxious than he had in a while during an operation. If he screwed up with Bobbi, he was scared that he wouldn't be able to bounce back from ruining a young woman's life.

The war was particularly gruesome as of late, and it was really beginning to gnaw away at Trapper's spirit. He found himself turning towards the still, as well as blowing most of his pay at poker in order to deal with his depression. Despite how much he and Hawkeye joke about booze, and how much fun they have while they're tanked; his ever increasing dependence on alcohol was starting to scare him. Trapper really felt like his life was sliding downhill, and he was completely helpless to stop it. He was stuck in the middle of a warzone. Human suffering, whether it be physical or mental, was simply impossible to ignore – especially as a man of medicine.

* * *

><p>It had been two hours since Trapper had started to operate on Bobbi. Although to Klinger, it felt like a lifetime. He tried to focus on his work, but every time walked into the O.R his focus shattered into a million pieces.<p>

There were only three other casualties besides Bobbi – which were all mild cases – so, Henry took all of the other patients leaving Trapper free to focus on Bobbi.

After Klinger and another corpsman, had delivered the third and final patient to Colonel Blake's table; he went and sat down on the bench in the hallway between Pre-OP and O.R. He was hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees, so that he could support his head in his hands. He closed his eyes took in long, deep breaths, in an attempt to calm his nerves.

Klinger had no idea how long he had been sitting there, when Father Mulcahy said to him, "My word Klinger, you don't look well at all."

Klinger's body jolted upward slightly in shock. He didn't even hear the priest approach him. His mind was off in a faraway time and place. Needless to say, it was in a place that did not involve the horrors of war.

"Hi Father," Klinger drawled as he opened his eyes, lifted his head, and sat up straight.

Mulcahy felt a pang of worry travel down his body, when he looked in the Lebanese's eyes. Usually they glimmered with a hint of mischief; on this day though, they were void of any type emotion. He thought that Klinger looked as if his entire soul had somehow detached itself, from its Earthly entrapment.

"Are you feeling okay? Do I need to grab a nurse to look at you?"

After a few moments of heavy silence from Klinger – Mulcahy decided that it would be best to take a seat beside him. "Max?" He asked, thinking that the personal touch of using his first name would snap Klinger out of whatever fog he was in.

Still, there was no response. Mulcahy was about to say his name again, but stopped when Klinger finally spoke up while looking straight ahead.

"I've screwed up so many things in my life, Father…"

The priest's body tilted backward in shock at Klinger's statement. There was a gravely somber tone to his voice, which quickly made Mulcahy realized that this just wasn't another one of Klinger's schemes to try to get out of the Army.

"Er, well –" Mulcahy was trying figure out how to ask Klinger what on Earth he was talking about, without sounding like a total cad; when Klinger suddenly interrupted him.

"The only woman I ever really loved hates my guts…" Klinger mumbled at a barely audible volume. He still did not make eye contact with Mulcahy. The image of last time he kissed Bobbi, outside of the bus station in Nashville, Tennessee; sprung into his mind.

He remembered how warm her body felt pressed against his. How soft her lips felt against his chapped ones. How she threaded her nimble fingers, through his thick locks of black hair. But most of all, he remembered the look of complete trust in her blue eyes. He could tell that Bobbi really thought that everything would be okay – come 1955, he'd still be waiting for and they'd finally get married. She did not have the slightest clue that he had already decided that it would be the last time they would ever meet.

A stinging pressure began to form in the corners of Klinger's eyes. He knew that he was on the verge of a complete and total breakdown so, quickly got up, and ran out to the doors which led out to the compound.

Father Mulcahy could only sit there, with his mouth agape. He hadn't the slightest clue about what caused Klinger's rare display of genuine emotion. As much as he wanted to chase after him and ask him a million questions; he refrained. Mulcahy was sure that in due course, all would be explained.

If there was one thing he had learned since becoming a priest – and especially since coming to Korea – was that there were certain times when people need to be left alone to simmer with their thoughts and feelings.

* * *

><p>As Trapper placed the final piece of tape across the bandage on Bobbi's shoulder, his heartrate began slowly lower itself.<p>

It had taken him three and a half hours to completely fix all of Bobbi's wounds. He worked as fast as his fingers would allow, yet, he made sure to pay meticulous attention to every little detail.

"Alright, get her Pre-OP right away," Trapper told his scrub nurse as he peeled off his gloves.

"Yes Doctor."

He stepped out of the way momentarily so that two corpsmen could haul Bobbi's stretcher away, however, he then resumed his previous stance in front of the operating table and stared downward at it.

He had restored circulation to Bobbi's limbs – but was it a good enough job?

"Doctor McIntyre, are you okay?" Radar's concerned voice, made Trapper look up from the table.

Trapper realized how odd he must look standing in front of an empty O.R. table, when he knew very well that there were no more casualties. He snapped out of it, undid the top string of his surgical mask and replied in his usual tone, "Yeah I'm fine."

Trapper then brushed past Radar, ignoring his confused gaze and walked into the scrub room. He wasn't surprised to see Major Houlihan ripping into Henry a new one.

"Sir, certain protocols need to be enforced when working on a female patient! I am the head nurse, which means that it your duty to inform me of such situations. You not telling me about this woman's presence during triage, is just another instance of how grossly inept you are to command this base!"

"Major, I didn't even know about the patient until you blew your cork in O.R. earlier! I really don't see that big deal." Henry grumbled.

"Hah," Margaret snorted, "if the sun was about to blow up; you wouldn't think it was a big deal either!"

"What does that have to do with anything? You know the way you can nag a man, I swear that you and my wife run on the frequency sometimes."

Margaret's jaw dropped open. She held a finger up at the Colonel and roared, "How dare you presume to talk to your head nurse – _let alone a U.S. Army, Major_ –in such a degrading fashion. You can be sure that this conversation will be enclosed in my next inefficiency report for General Clayton!"

Trapper was pretty sure that he could see the steam spouting out of Margaret's ears. He decided that it was the right time to join the conversation, "Cool your coals, Hot Lips. Nothing bad happened during the surgery. The nurses are probably setting her up in a corner of Post-OP right now, so that she will have complete privacy."

"Well just to make sure, I am going to go supervise so that it done to protocol," Margaret spat back before she stormed out of the room.

Henry and Trapper then began to stagger over to the curtain, which separated the general scrub area from the men's changing area.

"Man that Major sure is one hot tamale," Henry commented as he threw back the curtain.

Trapper waited until both he and Henry were seated on the bench below the shelf, where the doctor's hung up their uniforms, with their backs slouched against the wall, before he replied, "you can say that again."

"That was some good cutting you did in there, McIntyre," Henry said truthfully.

"Thanks Henry. I just hope that it was good enough." Trapper sighed.

Right then, the curtain from the scrub area was thrown back and Radar came scurrying toward the Colonel with a clipboard in hand.

"Sir, can I get you sign this requisition please?" Radar asked while shoving the clipboard in one hand, and a pen in another, at the Colonel.

"Oh Radar," Henry whined while sitting up straighter, "can't you see that McIntyre and I are busy."

Radar furrowed his brow in confusion and commented, "Uh, but Sirs – aren't you just sitting there?"

"We are busy suing our feet for divorce, Radar," Trapper added in dryly.

"Sir you need to sign this, so I can send of this requisition for that shipment of surgical gloves you requested," Radar prompted Henry once more.

"Alright Radar," Henry groaned as he accepted the pen and clipboard.

While Henry was signing, Trapper told Radar, "After you're done with that Radar, I want you to call around and get that female patient's 201 file from H.Q. I want to know why the hell she was so close to the front and what her unit is."

After he accepted his clipboard and pen back from Henry – Radar replied to Trapper with a nod, "Yes sir."

"I can't believe I'm saying this… but I'm envious of Frank. What I wouldn't give to just be in Tokyo right now," Henry said to Trapper, as sunk back into his previous sitting position,

"You said it, Henry…"

* * *

><p>Klinger sat on the floor in a corner of the supply shed on a mattress, with only a small kerosene lamp for light, on a shelf above his head.<p>

He wasn't too sure how long he had been in there, and quite frankly did not care. He didn't have duty until 06:00 the next day, so, he could do whatever he damn well pleased.

In his hands he held the copy of _Heavenly Highway Hymns, _he had taken from that Private one month ago.

After the events of the day, Klinger came to the conclusion that coming across Bobbi's hymn book was an sign from whatever God sits up in the high heavens, that his and Bobbi's worlds were about to collide once more. He had no idea how he could have been so blind to such an obvious sign.

His only way of coping with such a realization, was to cry until his body couldn't produce any more tears.

Several worries plagued his mind about how Bobbi would react to seeing him again. Also, he worried about how the officer's at the 4077th would react, once they found out about the Bobbi's unique position in the military… that is, if they found out at all.

After his sobbing had ceased; he pulled out the hymn book and began to slowly read the lyrics of the songs he had loved to hear Bobbi sing, so much.

When Klinger read the words to the hymn, "If We Never Meet Again" – his memory took him back in time when nothing stood in between the that love he and Bobbi had once shared.

* * *

><p><em>Maxwell Q. Klinger thought that he was the luckiest man on the planet. Sure, he knew how cliché it sounded; but he really didn't care. <em>

_After two years of playing cat and mouse, he had finally taken the plunge and just told her that he actually like her more than just a friend. He really didn't have any clue that Bobbi also felt the same way about him. So, when she told him that she had a big crush on him as well – he felt like he was walking up in the clouds._

_Even though she was only fifteen, and he was sixteen years old – he had this solid, definitive feeling in his gut that they were going to grow old together. _

"_Maxwell Klinger – what in tarnation are you thinking about?" _

_Bobbi's sultry, southern voice brought Klinger back from the idyllic future he was picturing in his mind; to the present day, April 2__nd, __1938. _

"_Oh, just how beautiful you look while playing that piano," Klinger told her a partial white lie. _

_Bobbi rolled her eyes and chuckled at him, "Y'all didn't even know what I was playing – did you?" _

_Klinger cracked a grin that extended from ear to ear. He love that every once and a while, her Southern vocabulary popped up. _

_When she had moved from Tennessee to Toledo, two years prior, Klinger hated how much the other kids in their grade had teased her about her accent. For the first few weeks, everything she walked down the hallway or was sitting in her desk before class started; she was called anything from a backward hick, to a Dixie dummy. Over the years her accent faded, but it never fully went away – much to Klinger's delight. He loved the way Bobbi talked and thought that it was the sexiest thing he'd ever heard. _

"_Yes I do! That was – Fare Thee Honey Blues, by Perry Bradford." Klinger proudly defended himself._

_Before he had met Bobbi; Klinger couldn't tell the difference between a ragtime song and a country song, if his life depended upon it. Once he had begun to spend time with her however, he quickly caught on that if he wanted to impress Bobbi; he'd have to learn a hell of a lot more about music._

"_I'm impressed," Bobbi said playfully, with an arched eyebrow._

_Klinger got up from the armchair he was sitting in, and joined Bobbi on the wooden piano bench. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and in turn; she loosely wrapper her arms around his neck. While staring into her clear blue eyes, Klinger spoke from his heart, "You know what Bobbi, not in a million years would I have thought that me, a poor Lebanese kid from Toledo; would ever end up with a gal like you… I love you to bits, Bobbi." _

_Bobbi's blood pressure skyrocketed, as her cheeks changed to a shade of dark red. It was only the second time that Klinger had told her he loved her. _

"_I love you too, Max," Bobbi happily replied in a sheepish voice._

_Upon hearing her reply, Klinger then tightened the grip around her waist, so that the small gap between their bodies was eliminated. He put his hands on either side of her face and softly pressed his lips to hers. He knew that Bobbi was blushing, because he could feel the intense heat radiating from her skin onto his hands. After a few moments, Klinger reluctantly broke the embrace. _

_He didn't want to screw things up by letting his teenage hormones get in the way and move too fast with Bobbi, because he knew that he was her first boyfriend._

_He had dated Laverne Esposito for a few months before, so he was a bit more experienced with intimacy than Bobbi. That being said, Klinger never went past first base with Laverne. It just did not seem right._

_Bobbi looked down at her lap, as she tucked her bright red hair behind her ears before asking, "So… is there anything song you want me to play?" _

"_It would really be swell if you'd play and sing – If We Never Meet Again." _

_The request was a no brainer for him. In his mind, when she sang the hymn he could hear an unusual, mature sounding wisdom in her voice. It gave him a sense of comfort, but for some reason, sent an eerie chill throughout his body. At times he wondered if it was his subconscious was sending him some sort grim, omen._

_Bobbi flashed him a sincere grin before she began to play the hymn: _

"_Soon we'll come to the end of life's journey  
>And perhaps we'll never meet anymore<br>'Til we gather in Heaven's bright city  
>Far away on that beautiful shore<em>

_If we never meet again this side of Heaven  
>As we struggle through this world and its strife<br>There's another meeting place somewhere in Heaven  
>By the side of the river of life<em>

_Where the roses bloom forever  
>And where separation comes no more<br>If we never meet again this side of Heaven  
>I will meet you on that beautiful shore<em>

_All they say we shall by the river  
>Where no spurn clouds ever darken the sky<br>And they say we'll be happy in Heaven  
>In that wonderful sweet by and by<em>

_If we never meet again this side of Heaven  
>As we struggle through this world and its strife<br>There's another meeting place somewhere in Heaven  
>By the side of the river of life<em>

_Where the roses bloom forever  
>And where separation comes no more<br>If we never meet again this side of Heaven  
>I will meet you on that beautiful shore"<em>

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I am so sorry this took forever to get out! I got sidetracked by my Band of Brothers fic, and of course my school work got in the way o_O **

**Thanks to the people who have followed/favorite this story since the last time I've updated! Glad to see more support for this story! **

**Anyways, I'd like to thank you for reading, and ask you to please take the time to write a review. A lot of the story thus far is new material as compared to my old version of this story.**

**Hope to give you readers and update soon!**


End file.
